i am a Marxixt and I have built a sweet home with tatas who with military forces destroyed adivasi villages in Kalinganagar. i am a Marxist and my home is built with bricks made of blood red of tender limbs. i am a Marxist and my children hate vernacular, low lands and plains, and dream of inhaling pure air of Canada, Texas, Bristol, New York, Chicago. i am a Marxist and I never raise my voice for the rights of adivasis, muslims or other outcastes and I collect plods to renew the old walls of status
Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors. In the next There sleeps a cooking pot. Over the third thatched roof has a hole through that rain and sun peep, There is also a plastic flower, brought from fair ages ago, now Sullied with soot. And in the darkest There is a cot, lousy Worm-infested, And when when we sit It creaks.
“Hey poet! Why do you look so sad? Searching seven heavens you bring home a queen at last. Be happy, and enjoy forever life of conjugal bliss.” I commended. The poet eyed me with a queer look and said nothing. He sat on haunches in the backyard of his hut, and writing a suicide note on a piece of crumpled paper. “Are you mad?” I said, and snatched the note and tore it into pieces. The poet looked vacant. He hung his head between his knees, and sat silent. I feel awkward. Till this morning I enjoyed each moment of
One late summer afternoon I was returning back from the day’s rambling around Sarugaon tea garden. I surveyed the long green carpets stretched miles after miles, sometimes wavy like a foamy sea, sometimes like a placid and stagnant green lake. My eyes feasted on the rain trees dotted the garden, and glistening plumes of a flock of white herons flying lazily over my head. Adivasi women plucked the tender buds and leaves, and men caressing the trees. Naked children roamed and played in the yards, elderly women sat silent and sad in front of their huts. The rays of the sun
Between the Jaldapara forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and tall lean betel nut trees. Men and women still working on their fields. Children were all barefoot and some of them had running nose. Elderly men and women sat on their haunches on the dusty path, and gossiped. It was winter. The day was chill and icy. The sun for the whole day hid his face under the veil of smoky clouds. And a mild breeze blew. It added more bitterness to the cold. Still
At Kunjanagar beside the potholed street stood I at blazing sunset lone. The orange cloudlets scattered the western horizon. Slowly evening descended, and tiny dew droplets began falling. The birds went home and stopped their songs and fell soon asleep. But a wayward parrot flicked in the air still. Later a full moon bathed the harvested field, and crickets sang incessant, and eyes feasted on fireflies’ dance round the bogs. Frogs croaked, and the clusters of stars hung heavy over me. The silence broken by the occasional barking of the dogs and motorcycles’ whiz. The air was heavy with scent
A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."